Love on Mother's Day

It's the nature of my writing that I often reflect on what's gone, rather than what I have in the present.

That often causes confusion for people. 

They read a blog that was written in a moment of sadness about a world event and assume that I spend my every waking hour in tears. I don't. I am blessed in my life, my family, and my friends, and I appreciate every moment. 

But I also have empathy for those less fortunate, and those to whom life suddenly throws a pile of crap. I've had my share of the latter, but nowhere near as bad as other people. Then again, it's not a competition. Pain is pain, emotional and physical, and you have to be where people are. Judging them is irrelevant; offering unsolicited advice, ignorant; arrogant, actually.

  

I have written a great deal about my father on more than one occasion. He was/is in my memories, a wonderful man, and I miss him every day, even though it was 25 years in January since he died.

  

But tomorrow is Mothering Sunday and I want to talk about my mum, because I love her just as much as I did (and still do) my dad, and often we don't tell the living how much they mean to us while they are still around to hear it.

  

Where do I start? I could fill books with the happy memories I have of my mother. The trips to the beach, when she packed the car with enough stuff to have taken us on safari for six months; the late night whims cooking pasties or toffee, that, to a kid in a dressing gown, were the height of decadence; the play time with the Lancôme beauty case; the first time she plucked my eye brows (less happy - AGH!); the Kardomah cafe in Newport, where, after a rainy Saturday shopping expedition, she stood at the counter while they ground beans and put them in a bag for us to take home. 

It was all terribly glamorous to me.

  

I never had the right twigs and branches for nature classes in school, but when it came to fancy dress, Mum excelled herself. One Saturday morning in summer, she realised she had left it way too late to get me a fancy dress costume for the local summer fete, so, looking around the house, she grabbed the sheepskin rug in front of the fire, wrapped me in it with safety pins and put the sign The Abominable Snowman on me. I came first and won 50p (never mind that I nearly expired in the 85 degree heat). My brother was less successful with Charlie's Aunt, but then Coity, the village where we grew up just outside Bridgend, was to progress what beach towels were to Noah's Ark.

   

On my first day in the small village school (we had moved from Newport for my father’s job), Mum sent me off in a psychedelic crimplene mini dress and a cow bell round my neck. She was a Sixties mother. Alas, Coity had barely caught up with the end of the Second World War. Actually, make that the Wars of the Roses.

  

When I went to Brynteg Comprehensive, Mum had another idea to try to throw her very reluctant daughter into modern life and gave me a Michael Jackson frizzy perm. I spent the whole of my history lesson with my duffel coat hood up and went home in tears at lunchtime, when Mum removed the frizz with the lotion that had given me the damned busbee in the first place. It would not have been a shock if she had made me black up, just for authenticity's sake.

  

Which reminds me of another story. My Auntie Audrey, Mum’s sister, had been to India, and brought me back a gorgeous sari. At the end of term party in Durham Road junior school, I was therefore very well prepared for the fancy dress. Except that Mum decided to mix cocoa powder with water to my face and neck so I would look like a real Indian. I spent the party crying in the toilet and was taken home, sobbing, with my now zebra face.

  

My mother was a hairdresser for most of her young life and she was (and still is, actually) a damned good one. She went to college relatively late, trained first as a social worker and then went to university to further her education and train as a therapist. Her work with young people in particular and the disadvantaged and disenfranchised in society is something that makes me in awe of her every day. She cares. Really, really cares, and has changed lives: so much so, that some of the people she has helped in their young, difficult lives, are still in touch with her, many years on, and with families of their own.

  

I saw her help and support my father through the very tough time when he lost his business during the country's horrific Three Day Week. I saw her constantly visit and support her own mother following the death of Grandpa. I have seen her battle breast cancer without ever once complaining. I have also seen her battle through two Apple Macs and an iPad (about which, I confess, she has complained).

  

My mother always looks immaculate. She loves her clothes and make up and never looks anything less than perfectly turned out (unlike her daughter). She takes everything that life throws at her with extraordinary courage, good grace and equanimity. She has never moaned about or criticised my tendency to up sticks and go to live in foreign places. "I always wanted to give my children wings to fly," she has always said - only once adding, when I decided to live in Los Angeles: “I just never expected them to fly that far." That’s another thing, by the way: she is very, very funny.

   

I am never more at ease with anyone than I am with my mother. We have had arguments over the years (who doesn't), but I know that there is no one who knows me better. She may not know the most about me, but she knows when I hurt, and she feels my pain; she is the person who, when everything else seems to be crumbling around me, is the one who lifts me up, carries me through, and quotes the Bear Hunt Song: “Can't go under it. Can't go around it. Got to go through it.” 

   

I get through all of it because of her. 

Happy Mother's Day, Mum. 

I love you.

The Frighteningly Real Housewives of Beverly Hills

A lot of reality TV is staged. I know it, you know it and, most importantly of all, the people taking part know it.

   

Much of real life reality can be very tedious or, if not tedious, a lot simpler than that featured on TV. Most of us manage to meet with friends without resorting to physical violence, and most of us leave restaurants and bars without breaking anything. We cook, clean, put out the garbage, brush our teeth, take showers – for the most part, we settle into a comfortable routine with our loved ones.

   

Imagine how boring that would be to watch. So, what reality TV does is extract big (for “big”, read famous, loud, obnoxious – anything out of the ordinary) personalities from the monotony of the everyday and place them in highly charged situations where their differences and conflicts play out for the amusement of the viewer. It’s the bear-pit mentality to which the TV viewing audience has become addicted.

   

At what point, though, does it cease to be entertainment and become deeply disturbing viewing? For me, that point was this week on The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills, when Kim Richards appeared to transform into a baying werewolf howling at the moon, when Lisa Rinna apologised very nicely, realising she had inadvertently upset Kim by going into her “business”. “You did,” responded Kim (“Awooooohhhhh! Awooooohhhhh!”).

   

Kim’s problems with alcohol have been well documented in each series, and now claiming that she has been sober for three years, she is very sensitive to any reference to her behaviour, past or present.

   

After some very nasty verbal abuse thrown at Lisa R (as opposed to Lisa V, Lisa Vanderpump) in previous episodes – a car journey, a plane ride to Amsterdam – Kim was having none of the apology, despite Lisa explaining that her own sensitivity was down to her having lost her 21 year old sister to alcohol and drugs when she was just six. Attacking Lisa R once more, Kim’s eyes widened demonically, so much so that I feared they were going to swallow the rest of her head whole. 

She then proceeded to lose it completely, attacking both Eileen Davidson and Lisa R (both newcomers to the show this season), and insinuating unpleasantries about Lisa R’s husband, the actor Harry Hamlin. Lisa R, usually the model of decorum, also then lost it, threw wine at Kim, smashed the glass and stormed out. I really didn’t blame her. I respected her for later making up with Kim, but I, for one, would not have been so generous.

   

Even if she is not drinking, Kim displays all the signs of an out of control addict. I have no doubt that she has struggled with her problems and continues to do so on a daily basis, but there is a real nastiness at the core of her being that I suspect she used alcohol to try to disguise. Without the Dr Jekyll front that the bottle gave her, the Mr Hyde actually has nowhere to hide, and the display in the shop window is not a nice one.

   

There is real anger here – anger that she can’t drink, probably – and immense jealousy. Kyle Richards, her breathtakingly beautiful sister, is at the brunt of most of it, and the cruelty that Kim displays towards her is unforgivable. It is to Kyle’s credit that she continues to forgive her sister and to try to understand her, but it can’t last, or Kyle will have a breakdown.

   

So, why would Kim be jealous of her sister? Well, Kyle has a gorgeous husband in Mauricio, four gorgeous kids, a beautiful home, and she recently opened a successful fashion store. She, too, has had her moments of losing it and, like all the other women, has her insecurities and vulnerabilities; but unlike Kim – and Brandi Glanville (I’ll come to her in a minute)  - she and the others do not parade their role as victims of life for the cameras.

   

It is no surprise that Brandi and Kim have become bosom buddies; neither has anything that the other women have in terms of looks, relationships, or professional success (Brandi did, until a blind surgeon – in my opinion - did her face over). They are the playground bullies, trying to exercise power only by bringing down the people around them, and it’s sad to see.

   

I enjoyed Brandi when she joined the show, but her extreme behaviour has turned her into a colourless bore and not, as she likes to imagine when she has had too much to drink (way too often), the life and soul of the party.

   

Both remind me of Stassi Schroeder, one of the key figures of another Bravo show, Vanderpump Rules, set in and around Lisa V’s restaurants. Another bitter, jealous, spiteful piece of work, she too has alienated everyone around her and caused so much trouble amongst Lisa’s staff (the stars of the show), while refusing to admit her own culpability.

   

And therein lies the problem with Kim, Brandi and Stassi  - all the bad things that have happened to them in life are, as they see it, somebody else’s fault, and that’s what they can’t forgive. I’ll bet that Lisa V, for all her appearing to have it all, has had many sleepless nights during financially challenging times and being stabbed in the back by people she thought were friends. But does she attribute blame? Does she heck.

   

They don’t call jealousy the green-eyed monster for nothing, but while Kim, Brandi and Stassi feed their insatiable desire for nasty trouble making, they should take some time out and try to realise one basic principle in life: it is you alone who are responsible for your own happiness. 

And if you can’t accept that, then be advised to stay clear of low-flying glass.

       

   

Wales: Land of my Fathers - and my Friends

This has been a very Welsh week for me, despite the fact that I am living in New York City. 

First, a reception on Friday lunchtime for Wales’s First Minister, Carwyn Jones, at the British Consulate; the next day, major celebrations at the Red Lion, where, along with the Minister, we watched Wales beat France in the Six Nations on the giant TV screen; and, finally, yesterday, St David’s Day at Mr Biggs Bar and Grill in Hell’s Kitchen.

   

Mr Biggs is a local hostelry where a group of Welshies meet every Sunday when our friend, Phillip Arran, briefly escapes from the Norwegian cruise liner on which he is performing in two musicals. Yesterday was particularly lively, with an eclectic mix of other nationalities celebrating our patron saint, St David, under our national flag that the bar agreed to hang on the wall (thank you, Richie and Scott).

   

I always get very sentimental when I am around my countrymen and women. Even though my Welsh friends and family live in different parts of the world, when we get together there is a bonding of the heart that just isn’t explainable. The longing for one’s homeland is “hiraeth” in Welsh, and some other nations have their own word for it; but, as far as I know, there isn’t a word for that stirring of the heart that occurs when we are among our own.

   

I have always been very proud of my heritage. Cultured, erudite, artistic, fun-loving – I never have less than a great time among the Welsh. But more than anything, I love the Welsh sense of humour. At our Sunday brunch, we enjoy two hours of non-stop laughter – something that other diners stare at with something approaching mystification.

   

What is it that lies at the heart of Welsh humour? To me, it is multi-faceted. There is a quickness of wit, an ability to engage in self-deprecation (so much so, we have turned self-deprecation into an art form), an openness of spirit, a genuine enjoyment of the physical act of laughing . . . It’s hard to analyse (as humour tends to be).

   

But I think, ironically, what makes the Welsh so funny is their seriousness – the kind of seriousness that often lies at the core of very funny people. The lack of confidence that comes from having been an invaded nation, even, at one stage in our history, being denied our language, instils a desire, a need (a real necessity, in fact) to rise above conflict – and laughter really is the best medicine.

   

More than in any other country, I also think that humour in Wales is classless. I have met very funny people from all walks of life in my homeland: some educated, others considerably less so, but that has never stopped disparate groups of people enjoying themselves. That is probably in part due to the fact that we have more things that unite us than divide us – not least, singing and rugby – and a sense of pride that, at its roots, was bred amongst working class communities of the valleys.

   

I know some very funny people – Americans, English, Irish, Scottish, French (yes, really; sharing a rugby day with the French is the best) – and humour is obviously central to most people’s lives. It’s what gets us through the mire; it’s what uplifts us when we are low and carries us through and beyond pain, both emotional and physical. Humour is what wipes our slates clean: it consigns yesterday to a box and carries us to the unknown and the expectation of better times tomorrow.

   

But while I love the humour of so many people in my life, the world over, there is nothing that quite beats the all-consuming hilarity of a group of Welsh people: the laughter that is born of the same history, the same insecurities, the same passionate love of one’s roots.

   

And so, thank you to all my Welsh friends who shared this fabulous week – and special thanks to my Cardiff friend, Catrin Brace, Wales’s fantastic ambassador in North America, who includes me in the magnificent Welsh events that take place throughout New York on a regular basis. 

   

I’m a European. I feel part American. I feel like an international citizen. 

But, in my heart, body and soul, I will never forget that I’m Welsh. I remain very proud of that. 

And this week was a salutary reminder of who I really am.   

It's a Dog's Life - Literally

What a strange week. A blizzard, a massage that almost involved the police, and saving a dog’s life.

   

The blizzard that hit North America and promised three feet of snow in Manhattan turned out to be little more than a flurry. I was out walking the streets in it and it was really rather beautiful. That didn’t stop New Yorkers adhering, to the letter, to the Mayor’s State of Emergency declaration. Supermarket shelves were emptied, the transport system shut down, and bars and restaurants closed early.

   

My social networking communication went into meltdown with worried family and friends from the UK checking to see if my head was still above snow level. No amount of reassurance on my part – that New York is a very big place, that Connecticut is not in the next street, and that I’ve seen worse weather in Wales (on an almost weekly basis, come to that) - gave them confidence that I would survive the blizzard of all blizzards.

   

I happened to be out in it as I had just had lunch courtesy of my good friend and brilliant lyricist Sir Tim Rice, who was in town on business. We went to a local Italian and, despite his efforts for his taxi to get me home, I decided to hoof it in order for him to get to his next meeting on time.

   

There is something incredibly invigorating and exhilarating about walking in falling snow. Put it down to childhood memories of Christmas, or the memory of unexpected days off school, or just the sheer wonder when one’s world turns white, it’s just a weather condition I have always loved.

  

The massage was supposed to be just as enjoyable, but very nearly wasn’t. I have been suffering from lower back pain for over a year now, not helped, I am sure, by lugging enormous bags around various countries of the world. This week, though, the pain was so bad I decided to go for some deep tissue massage at a venue advertising itself as a spa specialising in certain kinds of Chinese body work, rather than one of the places with dirty net curtains and a luminous red sign saying MASSAGE in the window.

  

My masseur looked like a Sumo wrestler, but I had very deep knots and, if anyone was going to unravel them, it was going to be this guy. So, I lay down in the little cubicle, relaxed and prepared my body for attack.

   

From my area, I could hear another voice from beyond the curtain – a man’s voice wanting a massage. In the cubicle next to mine, I heard him ask first if they had a shower, then if they had a hot towel. Then he asked for a hot towel again, shortly before the words “Don’t touch me!” came from the screaming masseuse.

   

I’m not sure what happened next, but my masseur apologised and left, there was some discussion with the touchy feely man, and what was clearly an altercation with the threat of the police being called. “Sorry about that,” said Sumo, returning, followed by the masseuse, who then insisted on showing me exactly what had happened, grabbing my hand from where I was lying on the couch, and pressing it to her leg and rubbing it up and down. Yeah, yeah, I get the picture. Now get back to my knots.

   

Now, to my new role as the New York Dog Whisperer. One of the reasons my knots had been worse was because I had agreed to be a dog walker for 10 days when my good friend and neighbour was away, and one of her regular dog walkers was no longer available. I took the lunchtime shift, but on walk number three noticed that Keela was limping. She had great difficulty walking and kept falling over, until she finally gave up and sat on the sidewalk, her back right leg doubled up under her body. I had to carry her home – and, at 16 kilos, that was never going to bode well for my knots.

   

I have grown up with dogs and told the holiday carers they should call the vet. “She wasn’t limping this morning,” was their response, making me feel like the dog abuser of the scenario.

   

I know a dog in pain when I see one and, after contacting the owner (who, quite rightly, worships this adorable dog), the carers were instructed to take Keela to the vet the next day if the situation hadn’t improved overnight. It didn’t, and she was whisked into doggie emergency.

   

It transpired the poor little thing had a herniated disc, which required urgent surgery by a neurologist. They didn’t think she would survive it (I learned that she was paralysed when she was taken in) but, thankfully, she did. I have been to see her in the hospital twice and she greets me as the mighty saviour I undoubtedly am.

   

It’s heartbreaking to see animals in pain, and I feel quite wrecked, having gone from abuser to saint in the space of just a few hours.

   

I’m hoping for a less eventful week today, although there is the promise of more snow. In Manhattan, it ain’t gonna happen, trust me. 

It’s not only dogs I understand.

I’m the New York Weather Whisperer, too.       

    

The Trial of Mr Biggs - Witness for the Defence (Me) Speaks Up

I’ve never been what you’d call a big committee person. 

Don’t get me wrong. I like committees; I just don’t like anyone other than me being on them. It’s why I wouldn’t like to be on a jury. I know I’d enjoy the law side of it, but unless I was the foreman (do people say forewoman? You see? I’m arguing already), I’d have to plead sickness, else go for a quick “They must be guilty if they’re in court in the first place” approach that would get us all out of there damned sharpish.

   

But last night, I found myself part of a very big committee indeed – well, a “community board”, to be precise, CB4, which represents the Hell’s Kitchen area in which I live. I’d been asked to attend by one of my favourite local bars, Mr Biggs, as the owners want to open another place close by. They asked those of us who are fans to support them and, if possible, speak.

   

I never need any encouragement to speak, especially when it’s in public. In fact, so much do I enjoy speaking, I am sure I will be punished in my next life by being sent back as a deaf mute.

   

The meeting took place in a conference room at Mount Sinai hospital and I immediately signed up for opening my gob on the subject of opening a bar. The only subject on which I could ever be even more vociferous would be that of never closing a bar.

   

There was a lot to get through before the rent-a-gobs got to take their place at the microphone. I learned a lot about free astronomy courses at the Intrepid museum (oh, please stop me from rushing out to buy a telescope before I’ve even tried a class), and even more about stairwells in new apartment blocks. They now have to be wide enough for eight people and, I discovered, the World Trade Centre had stairwells that were wide enough for just two.

   

Several people who appeared to have signed up to Stairwellgate declared that they had put their names on the wrong form (why would anyone want to talk about steps when there are bars to be opened?). Then, a woman who had signed up properly for something else decided that she had rather a lot of say on the subject of stairs – so much, to be honest, that had there been a nearby flight, I would happily have pushed her down them. 

   

Another woman was very unhappy that a building was going to be pulled down; another that a building was going to be put up. Geez . . . it was going to be Last Orders at Mr Biggs at this rate. Move it, people!

   

We were called in groups of five to the microphone and, as always happens in these circumstances, I had to stretch my neck to giraffe like proportions to reach it. I said my bit – fulsome praise of the bar, the owners, the management, but nerves encouraged some really weird things to come out of my mouth. Come on, it was the first time I’ve ever spoken in the US, and while it might not be Congress, it’s a start (give me time).

   

At one point, I found myself saying “Of all the worlds I’ve lived in . . . “ before realising that I have, as far as I know, lived in just one. The correction provoked a laugh, and I talked about the importance of a woman (and one of a certain age) feeling safe in a bar environment. 

   

Loads of other people spoke up in favour of Mr Biggs. Heck, it was so encouraging, I thought they would be granted permission to build a hundred new bars, let alone convert just one. 

   

Then the women with cardigans got up. I know from the UK that where there’s a woollen cardigan, there’s going to be trouble. Suddenly, there was an army of cardigans. Would there be cabaret? What about the noise? How would local residents sleep? Could they enforce a 2am rather than 4am closing time (even the latter is waaaaaay too early for this European)? I tell you, I reckon we were a hair’s breadth away from talking about how wide the stairwells would be.

   

I left the meeting before the vote and went to Mr Biggs where, it turned out, I later learned that the application had been turned down. I hope it wasn’t because the committee didn’t think they wanted aliens from other worlds inhabiting their planet.

   

It was incredibly disappointing for the owners, who really are a great bunch of guys who, given the success of their other places, I, and their other supporters, know would do a terrific job.

   

I’ve no doubt they’ll take it to the next level, at which time they will have to put their case to the State. Just point me in the direction of that microphone. 

Failing that, just tell me who I have to sleep with.

Life is for the Living, Not the Dying

I grew up watching my grandmother go up and down flights of stairs all day long when she and Grandpa ran The Old Globe pub in Rogerstone, just outside Newport in South Wales.

   

Her stamina always amazed me. She carried crates, served behind the bar, and, the thing I remember most, rose at 5am every morning to make fresh Cornish pasties for pub lunches.

   

On the one occasion I stayed with her, when Grandpa was ill in hospital, we shared the same bed and I recall three things: the false teeth she put in the glass at her bedside before retiring (I was fascinated – I thought only dentists removed teeth); her kneeling on the floor at the side of the bed to say her prayers; and the early morning that was ‘pastie o’clock’. She had barely been in bed five minutes after cleaning up after last orders.

   

She had always been the same. At 14, she gave up her job as a photographer’s assistant to wash clothes for the huge family of nine. To me, knowing this when I was young, it was a slavish existence. She must have worked eighteen hours a day until she retired when Grandpa died in 1971. Fifty years. That’s well over 350,000 hours. At least.

   

I lay there one night, on a sleepover when Grandpa was in hospital, listening to the mixer (good old Kenwood) stir the potatoes and onions and, when I finally got out of bed, I marvelled at the rows of golden, ribbed Cornish pasties on their steel trays that Grandma carried down to the bar to put in the ‘snacks’ container that kept them warm on the counter. And at 64, when she retired, she was still bounding up and down those stairs like a youngster.

   

When we, as a family, visited every weekend (Mum helped out behind the bar), I collected tops from the Courage beer bottles – numerous bright colours (orange, blue, yellow) surrounding a cockerel in the middle – and was ecstatic when Grandma gave me an empty cigar box in which to put my collection of plastic jewellery. I still have the Babycham glass she gave me with Bambi prancing across the front.

   

On Bank Holidays, Dad would take us to the temporary fair in the field opposite the pub. Dad always won a coconut and, one afternoon, won two goldfish – one for my brother Nigel and one for me. Nigel’s fish, Fred, died, when Mum fed him eight oxygen tablets when he appeared to be struggling to breathe. In the end, I suspect it was the wind that killed him.

   

My fish, Horace, had an inauspicious start in life when the bag we carried him back in burst, and he spent a good few minutes drunk as we tried to scoop him up from the spilt Guinness on the pub floor. At least he lasted longer than Fred, so it must be true what they say about the benefits of stout.  

   

I remember every Saturday afternoon, when Nigel and I were deposited downstairs, emerging from the terror of the living room where we had to watch Dr Who in the dark (apparently, it saved electricity), to be offered our choice of chocolate from the sweet counter in the bar.

   

I have thought of Grandma so many times since her death in 1989, a short while after her eldest daughter, Audrey, and a short while before my beloved father in 1990. I recall never hear her once complain, though her life was non-stop work, morning till night, seven days a week. She brought up three daughters, including my mum, Val, the eldest, and the youngest, Barbara, through a war, looked after Grandpa when he was dying of cancer, and dealt with horrendous money problems not of her making, following his death.

   

When I started out in my late twenties in Fleet Street, writing five TV columns a week “live” (this was in the days before videos and DVDs), living on five hours’ sleep a night for four years, I always had at the forefront of my mind that to survive in life, you had to have a strong work ethic, and nowhere had I witnessed it more powerfully than in my grandmother. 

   

To this day, that work ethic, and her fortitude and spirit are central to what keeps me going when times get tough for me (and I work just as hard now as I did when I started out). She had it tougher; she really did. But she loved her work, loved her family, and, despite the hardship, loved life.

At her funeral, the minister said: ‘Some people live dying; others die living.’ Grandma was the latter. And, thanks to her, I will do that, too. 

Hopefully, not for a while yet.